Breeding and Cliques

Feel like I am at some weekend high school party in this bar tonight. Can anyone in here outside of the bartender, myself, and a friend actually be over the age of twenty one, does this really matter as small pockets of younger girls gather together with pool cue sticks leaning over well worn blue felt billard tables, slightly attentive, yet more preoccupied with how the latest fashion from the urban hipster clothing company at the nearby mall makes them appear. The high school down the street has emptied all their problem children into the place tonight, as the sounds of pop music and trendy rock music echo through the establishment like acid induced underwater echoes being beamed from submarine ocean depths. Most of the guys around me are developing plans to supplant themselves right into the center of this teenage death wet dream in the slight chance that after buying these women a few more rounds of low grade vodka and tequila shots, an opportunity to exploit any of the ladies gathered around close to the pool table shall develop from girls overwhelming interest in the outlandish tales and sinisterly exaggered adventures of self indulgence making the five or six guys sitting and standing the women more hot in that dreamy idealistic poster boy body of sexuality and sensitivity sort of way.

Who knows maybe everyone here right now has no motiviation than to pass another early Sunday morning in some anonymous local dive until the work whistle blows on Monday or as for many people at any given moment throughout the week. Not really in the mood to talk to anyone right now, just trying to relax, sort of figure out how I ended up at such oasis of mundane behavior, with my head on a swivel, absorbing all the light beers, small talk, and spontaneous application of facial makeup. The company appears to be well familiar with each other as my friend and a few other guys collaborate on a semi hatched out scheme to bring a few of the female youngsters over to our side of the bar. Right now, it is only the cook, some railway skank, and a few other non speaking role actors reaffirming the fact that the chef does not have a license to serve me any alcohol, since my drink of choice does not come in a test tube, paper cup, or plastic memorabilia keep sake; the bartender has very little time for my prescene, getting a drink at this point almost seems out of the question.

Well, have to get rude and start hounding him like a welfare drunk who just got paid on a Friday night in search any sort of chemicals to mellow out the humming sounds in his brain. Guess I am the only one who cares right now. just can't get myself over into the mix with these twenty somethings, not that being funny, fake, and illusive is out of my acting vocabulary, but this venue caught me a bit off guard. Walking in the notion of old worn down video poker addicts and insomniacs danced through my head, so to observe a 21st century version of the American soda fountain experience intrigued me yet at the same time only drove me to the bottle a lot faster than usual, no amount of distance in length of the bar inside the tavern could maintain a strong enough invisible barrier to the realization that eventually interaction with some or all of the patrons in this place would be unavoidable. While dwelling in my paralysis, I attempted to say a few smirky half condesending, half intelligent comments to a short girl who could not have been more than 18, if even that, what did it matter anyway. My effort to communicate in my natural form did not even register with this group; this generation has created a social filter for weirdos like myself whose obtuse stabs of amatuer stand up comedy only felt uncomfortable capped by a response of bewilderment from children who could not bridge the generation gap with anything more than insect stares and subconscious edicts for my immediate execution.

Probably would have thought a bomb went off or a horribly smelling bodily function had made windfall across the front half of the bar sending the various sub-sections of ladies back to their alcoves along the length of the bar after the brief attempt at social interatction, so why not just head back down to the end of the bar with the rest of the misfits who always want to pull me into their tractor beams of conversation on topics ranging from proper means distilling illegal drugs to knife wielding couples in love who can't be bothered with such conventions as Valentine's gifts and anniversary trips to the Bahamas. There really is nothing more than cocktail after cocktail, insult after insult with the ocassional trip to the mens bathroom for a quick blowjob or fix on low grade synthetic drug swirling around me at the moment. My friend is well dug into one of the pockets of young women who look over at me once in a while, I am macabe hunchback trying to ignore all the LCD screens with fifteen channels of sports and the random late night epidose of Law and Order. Wouldn't it be easier just watch it at home, instead of here right now, holding a dangling unashed cigarette and slightly warm 7 and 7 while contemplating a future void of unemployment checks and inspiration.

Week in week out, this bar exists in a plane for those who really have nowhere to run, hide, or exist in which they can convince themselves that they are halfway normal, somewhat sociable, and not entire fixated on spending six hours a night in bed or on a couch flipping through 800 channels of premium cable television. For some, this might be considered a reward, the final chapter in the evolutionary process of the 9 to 5 worker who is driven by an appartion that puts them behind the wheel at 3am in search of a location to dance around the biovauc like the rest of the other drones filling in tiny honeycombs to nuture the next generation of grubs to perform the same tired acts that I am witnessing in front of me tonight. Already half way over the bar helping myself to a few beers before the bartender bothers to head back down to our side of the place. No..... pass on the jello shots and the low grade margaritas..... sure you don't want a couple shots, two for one special right now.... as the guy fills up a couple paper cups with booze so vile that it instantly starts to eat through the paper container on impact. No thanks, just two beers, make it four, service around here is a bit slow...... this comment goes right over his head....not even a up yours look.... just that wide eyed empty soul-less facade masquarading in human form. Welcome to the wasteland, the holding station for semi mature sperm and eggs who have become the next link on the chain with nothing to offer except paychecks, vomit in the toilet stalls, and a few future single mothers and runaway fathers fixated with the genetic impulse of the idealistic ritual of finding the perfect person to breed with on a late, late Saturday night.